


The Other Side of Freedom

by orphan_account



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the people to be stuck with, Bush thought, this was the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Goes AU from the episode _Loyalty_ and is set some years later.

I. 

The first night passed in a haze. He had climbed up the shore to find low, grassy hills beneath his fingertips, brittle sand and wetness. He had the impression that trees lay up ahead, yet he couldn't see anything; the rain was still falling and clouds covered any moon above. Through the din he thought he could hear the groaning of wood, the splintering.

He must have lain down at some point and fallen asleep. In the morning a bruised-looking haze hung low overhead, fresh airs whistling up off the shoreline carrying bits of sand and salt, and Bush could see how far he had gotten the night before. He looked for his ship. The only sign, other than the rough seas, was debris. Small bits of wood and further along, a body. Two. 

Bush reached the first one and turned it over - it was Jenkins. He looked pale as soap, and when the waves rolled in his hair swirled out beside his head. His cheek was cold under Bush's hand.

The second was Beth Whittaker. Her eyelashes were wet and her apron was soaked through; Bush could see blue threads in the pocket.

The ocean had been restless yesterday, spurred on by a sharp sky. By evening a devil of a storm had come upon them and Bush could not see beyond his quarterdeck. Rain had drawn plummeting walls all around him; it ran over his cheeks and fell in his mouth. His crew tried to hear his voice above the roaring wind. 

The _Arrow_, a trim vessel of twelve guns and eighty-nine people, went down quickly once the hull opened. Bush would have liked to go with her, belonging together as they did, but he found himself in the ocean without her under his feet, alive and wet, a sickening noise in his ears. He spat water and tried to open his eyes, and when he reached out his fingers found rock.

 

II.

The figure bent over on the gritty shore was Hammond. He was retching, spasms hitching through his lean body, and his cheek looked grazed, red and white. 

Bush caught him by the shoulders. 

"Hammond! By God."

Hammond swayed as Bush pulled him back to kneel upright. 

"Captain," he said. "Thank Heavens, you're --" His breath stuttered as his lungs worked and he listed towards Bush. 

Bush kept hold of him. Hammond had only been aboard a short time. And if Hammond was here, he thought, maybe there were others. Jones, Cloke, Fairweather. Mr Thrift the bosun; John Smith, his steward. He hadn't seen any of them once he'd gone into the water but they knew enough to get to the boats, perhaps even swim to safety. He wanted to see each of them now.

"Steady, Mr Hammond," he said, looking back out to sea.

Later Bush hauled up the bodies and put them into poorly-dug graves, grassy tussocks thrown to the side. Hammond picked through the far trees and came back with sticks and stones to mark the places. Bush took them from his hands when they began to shake.

After the exertion thirst set in and they went into the forest together. It seemed to close in around them, green and dim. They found a stream, water catching the barest light as it moved towards the sea, and Bush dropped down to drink deep mouthfuls.

Hammond knelt beside him and then looked over, water draining from his hands. "Absent friends," he said uncomfortably, and Bush remembered that it was Sunday.

 

III.

"I'm afraid I can't venture a guess at our position, Captain," Hammond said as the sun went down. "Perhaps if we had our charts."

Bush tested another slim branch in his hands, and it folded over before stringing, just like the others. He was looking for a snap but the rain had soaked through everything; there was nothing to fuel a fire.

"We'll go inland," he said, throwing the wood away. "There could be a garrison. A village. Best not stay out in the open - this could be French territory."

Hammond stared hard at the trees overhead as they rustled. "Aye sir."

Most of the day Bush had walked the shore up and back, checking the rocky ridges that rippled out into the ocean, picking things out of the shallows.

"But we'll search the shore again, first."

"Aye sir," Hammond said again.

They took cover just inside the treeline as it grew dark. Hammond folded his jacket under his head and said it was as good as his pillow at home, if somewhat less clean.

 

IV.

Gloriously, some of the _Arrow_'s stores had come ashore during the night. As Bush led Hammond round a long curve of whatever land they were on, they saw small barrels sitting upon the wet sand, slowly sinking as the water came in.

It was the work of moments to get them hauled up to solid ground, longer to get them open. Bush felt a surge of both happiness and grief as he did: here was food, here were his own stores from his own ship. He had ordered these very provisions to be brought on at Portsmouth. And now the sea had taken them back out again.

"Well, sir," said Hammond, examining the contents. "We'll have biscuits to eat at least." He poked a finger into the box consideringly. "I suppose it's too much to hope that the weevils drowned."

"Be grateful," Bush found himself snapping. 

Hammond straightened his shoulders and looked contrite. "Yes. That is, I am, Captain. Sir."

Bush wasn't sure what he was supposed to be grateful for - the food? His life? Hammond didn't show signs of being confused, so it didn't seem to matter.

 

V.

They had walked several days, searching for settlement, for others, taking food and water where they could. They found no signs of people or buildings or even other survivors, and at last Bush let himself turn back to the ocean. He considered making a bonfire of leaves and branches, even though no one would be missing them yet. The worst, he had decided, was being left here, not being found by the Frogs.

When the sun finally went into the sea Bush ignored the burnt potatoes with their thick skins in favour of the hard biscuits. They would fill his stomach, and it wasn't as though mystery vegetables were any better. Hammond wasn't much of a cook, but there wasn't anything that could make them tasty.

"We'll try the northern shoreline in the morning, Mr Hammond," he said, wiping his fingers on his trouser leg.

"Aye sir." Hammond said that a lot. He carefully scooped some of the vegetable mash into his mouth using a stick, and chewed silently with his mouth neatly closed. His cheeks were just beginning to grow dark with stubble; the firelight ran orange all over them, over his nose and lips.

Of all the people to be stuck with, Bush thought, this was the worst.

He remembered Jack Hammond as a midshipman with the _Hotspur_: frightened, stupid to his duties, a danger to his shipmates. He hadn't belonged. And years had passed since then, that was true, but he still looked the same to Bush.

They sat in silence as the night wore on, one on each side of the fire, and the small sounds of foreign creatures filled the air around them.

 

VI.

Bush thought he would give everything he had - his pay, his sword, all four sisters - to be given a chance at mutton. Thick, hard-cooked mutton with mustard, wine, pudding. Something to fill up his mouth and fix the hollow burn in his belly.

The sun stood high and bright already, though Bush was used to being under it even in normal circumstances and so it didn't trouble him. The heat was something else. A fresh southerly would be just the thing but there seemed no chance of that today, and so even stripped down to shirtsleeves he found himself eyeing the treeline and the deeper shade. 

Somewhere in there, in the green shade, Hammond was stripping off the shirt as well, and washing himself with slow-running freshwater. Bush had seen him at it a few times before: Hammond squeezed his eyes shut as the water ran over them and his hair lay long and dark down his neck. Hornblower's hair had done the same whenever he'd taken one of his baths on deck; Bush remembered the sight.

Bush wiped a palm over his mouth, bristles shifting under his fingers. Food, his razor, a cot, his pipe, full company. The orderly ring of the bells. Snowy sails full of wind. There were many things he had just begun to miss, and none more so than his God-forsaken ship. 

Gulls settled onto the beach like a falling sheet and Bush watched them until he heard footsteps.

"Breakfast, sir?" Hammond folded down next to him, clasping his hands over bent knees.

Bush grunted.

"Perhaps we could try catching one of those animals again."

"No knife, Mr Hammond."

"Hmm," Hammond agreed. The little knife had been lost in the first attempt.

"Have you thought, Captain," Hammond began tentatively, "about what might happen if they don't come for - for some time?"

Bush had considered it. He wasn't given to flights of imagination but the prospect of being left here was real enough. He had considered, and decided that thinking did no good. It was about the least useful thing at this moment -- Hornblower would not agree. But he wasn't here with Hornblower.

Bush looked over at Hammond briefly. "We'll worry about that when the time comes," he responded. "Have you collected more of those potatoes?"

"Yes, sir."

They weren't potatoes, really, but Bush had no other idea of what they might be. They were lumpy and grew in the dirt.

"They'll do for breakfast. Get them onto the fire."

"Aye sir," Hammond said and stood, sand slipping from the folds of his clothes.

The truth of the matter was that, except in some bodily aspects, Hammond and Hornblower were not alike in any way. Bush needed no imagination to know that in this situation Hornblower would be coming to him with plans and orders, not questions. With Hornblower and his clever mind there was always surprise and success, and being washed ashore with _him_ would mean something very different to being here with young Jack Hammond, a newly-made lieutenant who could still flinch at the guns.

 

VII.

"Heave and wake the dead!" Bush ordered and as Hammond began to pull on the thick vines, he started to push from above. His hands and shoulders ached and down below Hammond was slicked in sweat. There was dirt on his nose; his shirt was wound around his head like some kind of foreign trader. Hammond wasn't good with the heat. When he lifted his arms Bush caught sight of sparse, dark hair and there was dirt, too, on his chest, a thin smudge down the middle where he had wiped a hand.

"Alright, sir," Hammond called back up when they stopped for breath. "Once more." And they pushed and heaved on the vines until they came free, ripping away from the rock face with spiny tendrils and cascades of soil.

"There!" said Hammond, pleased, and Bush estimated the length of the stuff and shifted over to the next one.

"Make ready, Mr Hammond," he said. "We'll have this one as well."

"Aye sir!"

They met the afternoon with armfuls of rope, all the inflexible parts stripped away, ready to be useful. This was shelter and it was food and, where they had climb up or down from their usual settled ground, it could also be safety.

Hammond took rest beside him on the beach, throwing down his shirt and wiping his face against his upper arm. "That looks like a storm, Captain," he commented.

It was a storm and Bush expected it would pass over them during the night. The airs had dropped mid-morning and swung, finally, around to the south.

"We'll be in for a soaking," he replied. "Shall we get some fish in beforehand?"

Hammond dug slim fingers into his pocket and drew out the makeshift hook, it shone strong and ugly as Bush took it. Rocks and buttons and buckles, pieces of wood and thread, all these they now looked on with a different eye.

Bush made his line and Hammond followed him down to the ridge of rocks that crept out into the sea. They stumbled along to the end, hands flying out toward each other whenever their feet lost purchase and then they listened to the waves crash in, and Bush listened to Hammond talk about his uncle's voyages and Hammond smiled and smiled when Bush told him the right way to plant carrot and radish and sweet beans. It wasn't as though they had any of those here.

Occasionally Bush looked out to the deeper patch of water where his ship rested and sometimes he thought he could see her shadows.

Thunder was rolling in over their heads by the time they made their way back, Bush steadying Hammond's arm when the waves came in over the top, two lean fish dripping at Bush's side.

 

VIII.

Bush had come to know their stretch of coastline well but even so, Jack could manage to disappear into it so that Bush couldn't find him. It had been puzzling at first because Bush thought Jack was afraid and would keep close to what he knew. Eventually, though, he got used to it and when Jack would come back from one of his walks, he would bring things in his pockets: smooth stones, queer bits of plants and washed wood, feathers from a bird.

There was one afternoon when Jack didn't return until late. 

"I only went a bit further down the shore," he explained afterwards, looking rueful. The light was going, soon the stars would be out. "Around that long bend. It took me longer than I thought it would, to get back."

Bush said nothing but stoked the fire and threw on another heaping of twigs; he didn't like the way his heart was pounding.

"Sorry," Jack said quietly. He sat down next to Bush and poked at the edges of the fire, pushing the twigs further in.

 

IX.

The first morning Bush found himself in a proper bed, white sheets and white walls, he thought he was dreaming again. Then he breathed in and the smells of warm blankets, a musty room and the absence of Jack poured in and he remembered where he was and the long voyage to get there. 

From his small window he could see the street and the beginning of a narrow lane. Two women holding baskets walked by and a horse stood impatiently with a carriage, his harness probably making sounds whenever he shook his head. There were children running along and disappearing into an open doorway.

A knock at the door announced hot water; Bush washed and shaved and stropped his razor with all of his attention, and he drew on a clean white shirt keenly aware of the material on his shoulders.

Jack might be doing the same thing in the next room. Or perhaps he was still asleep, his chin tucked and all his fingers curled in, or perhaps he was downstairs already. Bush didn't know.

At the end of the week there would be a court martial to determine the cause of the shipwreck, to determine innocence or guilt or, somewhere in between, neglect. Poor seamanship. For now there was breakfast to be had: beef and wine, thick bread, the sound of voices.

 

X.

Walking back to his lodgings in Swale Street, Bush tormented himself with finding the right words to express his gratitude to Hornblower. It was obviously his doing that the Admiralty saw fit to give Bush another ship to command - and if something should befall this one, he thought, he hoped he would sink to the depths with her. Of course, Hornblower was somewhere in the Indies, far out of reach.

Bush put the thought aside and found he wasn't surprised at all when he looked up the street and saw Jack Hammond walking towards him. He reached out and they grasped hands, he could feel himself grinning like a fool. It was the good news, he guessed. Another ship.

"What brings you here?" Bush asked.

"Visiting with my family," Jack replied, and Bush nodded. "My mother and her sister are here." 

"Of course. Have you -" 

"No. If you mean, have I been granted another posting? I hope that will happen soon."

"I've been given command of the HMS _Liberty_," Bush told him. "She has a full complement - her captain took ill."

"Congratulations, Captain," Jack said warmly. "I'm sure she's a fine vessel."

"Thank you. Mr Hammond."

For a moment Bush regretted the little sloop and its hands, not that he had been given charge of them but that there was no room for his old lieutenant. He had become accustomed to Hammond. And there was not another lieutenant he knew who more deserved another posting.

"Perhaps it is for the best," Jack went on, as if his thoughts were the same as Bush's. "My mother and aunt believed me lost; it makes them happy to have me close by."

The tanned colour of Jack's skin was starting to fade but the soft lines on his face would not. When he smiled, Bush remembered, they creased around his mouth, his eyes. 

"Yes, it would," Bush replied. 

"Captain, I feel I must thank you again. I don't believe I would have - managed, without you. I'm sure I wouldn't."

Jack had already said this, when they had been rescued by a passing merchantman. Bush felt embarrassed and weak all over again. 

"It was hard luck," he said. He thought for a moment. "That merchantman - I thought he would try to keep us!"

"Yes, he didn't hide it, did he? He had too many hands already."

"And all of them sloppy."

"I enjoyed his look when you set them to work properly. He went as red as his waistcoat."

They chuckled over the memory and then Jack put his hands behind his back. "Well," he said slowly. "I'm expected at my uncle's house this morning."

"You'd best get on, then, Mr Hammond."

Jack said, "Aye sir." And after a moment's hesitation he touched his hat, and then his eyes slid off Bush's and his shoulder brushed Bush's arm, and then he was gone.

Bush returned to his lodgings, passing people in the street, nodding if he saw another uniform. He climbed the narrow stair which creaked underfoot and closed the door of his little room behind him. In here it was quiet. The view from the window looked at other buildings and other windows close by, their drapes drawn against the grey daylight.

Tomorrow he would have duties to undertake before he went aboard the _Liberty_. There would be inspections and victualling and orders, registers to be opened, a letter to be written to his sisters.

He sat down upon the small cot and remembered sleeping under the sky, Jack beside him and a soft bed of sand.


End file.
